Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  ‘… there’s no call for work like years back when you could pick up jobs on the farms. All gone. Nobody needs extra hands. So I’ve learned meself mechanics. I can fix an engine, get a car on the road. Though I never did mind hard work. Being out in the fields, in the air, gave me the greatest pleasure.’

  Joe had grit under the nails but she did not mind, for his eyes were soft brown, like turf.

  *

  While her father dozed outside in the late sun, she slipped away. Joe waited for her in Corrigan’s. She sipped sherry and lemonade, vodka and lime. It was good to try a variety of drinks. Good to have the time and not be chasing from one cleaning job to another. Catching buses. Or missing them. Stuck in the overheated Tube, rubbing up beside some young man’s bum and the ribs of a girl thin enough to be a model.

  ‘So what was it brought you? Not the weather, surely?’ Joe leant in.

  ‘A few things…’ She should tell him how Torin had been picked up by the police. Held at the police station where she had to collect him. How he was questioned. Questioned again, until she insisted they did the only thing she was good at, and they left the city one night on the bus for Holyhead, retracing steps she had made years back. Years so far back, it hurt to recall. But her body would not let her forget, and she had not had a decent night’s sleep with conflicting worries about Torin and the day buried in the past when she had left the wee girl with her mother. How that day had sliced her, prising through the rock of years, the drag and scrawl of loss raging which she’d struggled to keep inside.

  A family entered, the two little boys scampering on the padded seats, lifting up salt and pepper containers. ‘Mum. Can we have chips? Mum, can we?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Eva asked.

  ‘You were dreamin’.’

  ‘I was?’ She blinked in the light. ‘I’m sorry. I was far away. The thing is… my son was in with the wrong crowd in London. We left, for I was afraid it would get out of hand.’

  ‘Weren’t we the same ourselves?’

  ‘I’d had a falling out with the fella I was with, as well. He was all for us staying but I didn’t want to risk it.’ She put down her glass.

  ‘The husband?’

  She shook her head. ‘I never went down that road. It was a fella I’d met. We didn’t get on. Not at the end anyways. There was him and oh, I don’t know. A lot happened in England.’

  ‘You held on over there a good while then?’

  ‘I had to. Leastways, I thought I had to. I had met my son’s dad there. Though I may have done as well to come home, for he didn’t come from a family who’d been on the road, so there was none of the desire to be in the open air at the heart of him. And I didn’t come back, for I didn’t know what they’d make of me.’

  ‘Were you never lonely, without your own people?’ He sipped his beer, his brown eyes steady and bright as the glass.

  ‘I was. But when I’d the young ’un, I’d to get on with it.’

  ‘I could never have stopped so long.’

  ‘Did you ever go to England?’

  ‘I was there once.’ He looked into the golden tones of his beer.

  ‘But you came back. You’d sense. If a person didn’t have anyone there you could get away. I was in a trap, for the fella I was with was able to force his view on me. But in the end I was afraid for Torin. He thinks he’s smart but most of the time he hasn’t two brain cells in his head. I couldn’t stand the worry of drugs and the like. How’d I manage if he was caught up with that?’

  ‘It’s not much different here.’ He brushed his mouth with his hand and licked his lips.

  ‘If I found out he was involved in that caper, I’d break every bone in his body.’ She gave a little laugh but it was the truth. She would be lost. Desolate.

  ‘You’ve done right. You’re a strong woman. There can’t be many men who’d have the better of you.’

  ‘Some did, easy enough when I was young with nothing in my head. You’ve a wife along, surely?’ she asked, the weight of the glass in her hand. She set it on the table, ready to hear whatever it was he had to tell. After the drink, she could take it. A wife of course. And boys and girls. Maybe they were grown up and scattered around the world. America or England. Even Australia.

  ‘I have not,’ he laughed, ‘for no one’d have me.’

  ‘You weren’t looking hard enough.’ She forced a laugh.

  There must be a woman. There was with every man, even if it was only a mother sitting in the corner, watching every inch of movement of the door. Her mother used say that there was a ghost of love around everyone.

  ‘The women must’ve thought I wasn’t worth hanging on to.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘Wouldn’t they be queuing up? A good-looking fella like you, must have had girls running after them.’

  ‘It was not running after me they were, but hurrying off. To tell you the truth, I married once, a girl from Dublin. But I was young and braggish and after breaking up with someone. I fell into it like a bloody eejit. It’s lucky for you, though. I’ve no son to keep company with. I’ve only myself. Even the old ones are no longer on the road but fixed up in houses. They’re settled nice and cosy and we see neither hide nor hair of them.’

  ‘Settled? Where?’

  ‘New estates. A lot of houses were put up by builders and no one in them for a long time, so the Council handed them out to some of the old ones.’

  ‘Old ones. How far away are they?’

  ‘A few miles out the road. God, if I could remember the name of the place. Temple… Temple... vane. There are houses with two bathrooms. Would you credit it?’

  ‘And it’s old ones in it?’

  ‘It is indeed. Why? You’re not thinking of applying? You’d might stand a chance with your father if you want to put in an application.’

  Her heart thudded. Delia. She hadn’t seen her in years. The one true friend of her mother’s who had taken charge of Caitlin when her mother died. Her father with the loss had wanted to be every which way on the road. Caitlin’s face and hands. Those eyes. Lashes dark as an insect. Her luscious little body, smooth and soft. Not as dark as Kaybe but a lighter darkness which she had loved with a fierceness. A pinch in her heart which never ended. A cold thread ran in her veins. She had given away the years. Had not been able to manage on her own in London with no family, no mother or sister about. She had been young and stupid with only the sight of a man to bother her. The trouble. The nub. Kaybe’s glowing dark skin had touched her with a kind of fire. He had told her they both came from a small island, though his was far across the ocean, but not distant enough to avoid colonisation by white men. His own inner night of sensing he had been passed over for jobs he could have done as well as any man, devoured her during their days. When she told him the colour of his skin was no concern for her, he seemed not to listen. But the more determined he grew in his sense of loss, the more she was drawn to him. She fell for him at the start and was drained when he walked out. She had been so empty of feeling or knowledge of how to cope it was no wonder a neighbour had phoned the Social Services. She had been hunted. Watched. All she could think was that everything would be all right if she could get to her mother. It had been a wild, bitter, dangerous thing with Kaybe, made more exciting by the fact he was unusual. Him from a people from across the Atlantic. He had told her about the land and the plantations of sugar cane running down the sides of mountains.

  And the same thing happening with the next man. She had been furious with desire to be with Taylor. He had seared her life so she never returned to her own people. She might have. But he had burnt her out and left her with the shame of a child on her own. And given little enough time to see his own son.

  ‘Are you all right, Eva? You’re awful quiet.’ Joe leaned in to her, fingers around his glass.

  The dark wood of the table had coils in
the grain. So many had likely passed through the pub. Friends, neighbours, those they had met on the road, made fun with, joined in songs with, quarrelled with. Delia might have been one.

  ‘You sickening for something?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m only tired.’

  ‘Take it easy.’ His arm slipped under hers. ‘We’ll get to know each other better soon enough.’

  ‘To old times.’ She raised her glass, attempting to match his optimism.

  ‘No. To the future. We’ll chase time over the hill.’ He clinked her glass.

  Out of the tiny bar, the sky looked down in perfection while so much was mucked up. She felt the warmth of him as Joe put his arm around her on their way back. His footsteps matched hers as they passed vans and trailers, a burnt-out car near the bins at the back, and bikes lying around. In sight of the trailer, she paused. Inside was a mess. No place for a visitor.

  ‘I’d ask you in, but my father’s after eating his meal and will be resting.’

  ‘I know the way with the old ones. No matter.’

  The next evening, as they strolled along the road by the fields, heading near the shore, she gathered her strength and asked him the question loaded in her all day.

  ‘What way would you say I could get out to the estate?’

  ‘A bus. There’s plenty on the roads. Look for the one heading to Ashford. So I’ve put you thinking have I?’ He squeezed her around the waist. ‘I’d say it’s tempting with the bathrooms and all.’

  ‘It isn’t for me. I was only wondering...’

  ‘You’ll be tired after our little walk and I don’t blame you.’

  She nodded, out of tiredness and a snaking apprehension as they followed a road back to the site. Templevane. So far and so near. A wild-goose chase would most likely be the end of it. He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She spread her hands out on his back and drew him close. Through the trick and lapse of time, years fell away. She was young again and so was he. They were different people. The ones they wanted to be. She should have put on a bit of make-up. Mascara and lipstick would be an improvement. His eyes slid under folds within creases. He was weathered. They both were. But she was not the girl she used to be, running the length and breadth of fields. He was not the young man she might have crossed on the roads. His face was browned by the wind from journeying between trees and mountains, lakes and the sea. Inland places.

  The sun glimmered on the sides of caravans. A gang of men and women stood outside the biggest trailer. The men drank from bottles, the women were seated and talking. Pity they never invited herself or her father in. The old woman of the family sat on a folding chair and leant to pat a black terrier. Eva walked to her own place. But Torin was ahead, aiming for the road with someone. A girl. Their backs passed around the corner. Gone. What way would it be with him? What had she taught him? Warm with shame, she put the key in the door but paused, letting it swing. She had done what she could. When the danger with the police was over, they would go back. Find a place to live in London, the two of them, and things would go on the same.

  2

  Rain started as he passed Dunnes, so he stepped into the doorway of a café, an old ladies’ place full of tables with check tablecloths and tiny vases of flowers. The radio news talked on, ‘and the Gardai are still looking for a young man seen leaving the house after the terrible murder of the young mother and her two daughters yesterday in North Dublin…’ Torin breathed in deeply, not knowing if it was out of fear for what he had done or what he had not.

  He needed to get out but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere except the bar. Even if she wasn’t there, it was out of the rain. He crossed the road. Caitlin. Looking in the window of an expensive clothes shop. Handbags and flashy jewellery. Cool was the way to play it. Or perhaps he should head off before she had a chance to find out what an idiot he was.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, walking across, in between cars.

  She was pleased to see him.

  ‘You didn’t come back.’

  ‘No. I…’ He was all too conscious of avoiding her and not wanting to.

  ‘You coming in? It gets awful lonely with those old lads. How are the trousers?’

  ‘They’ve dried out, thanks.’

  Caitlin pushed at the door and went behind the bar, taking off her jacket and hanging it up. She called to Breen, letting him know she was back.

  ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘It’s early. A Coke, please.’ He tangled inside. He had lost it. Yet she drew him, had a solidity in those eyes. Her hair so thick and springy, he would love to touch it. Up close, her skin in daylight was lighter.

  ‘You got back all right?’ She wiped glasses dry, setting them in a neat row behind her.

  Was it all she could think of, his messed up trousers?

  ‘Fine thanks. I was okay. You… d’you live round here?’

  She shrugged. ‘A few miles the other side of town.’ She pulled a fresh tea-cloth out of a cupboard and dried wine glasses and smaller ones that must have been for whiskey or brandy.

  ‘In your own place?’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ She gave a stifled laugh. ‘I’m with a friend of my grandmother’s. A bit of a cailleach.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Irish for old biddy. She wasn’t always like that. She used to have great energy and spirit. When I was younger, when we travelled around.’

  ‘Can’t you get your own place?’

  ‘How? I’ve got nothing.’ She clamped a bottle of whiskey into a clip above the bar, upside down in a perch where it shone hard and green.

  ‘What about your mum and dad?’

  She swung to face him, the tea-cloth over her shoulder as if she was a waiter in one of those fancy restaurants his mum was drawn to but never went in.

  ‘Them. I don’t know about them. From when I was small it’s been me and Delia. Travelling all over. Even to England, once.’

  If he kept talking, it would be all right. He would quieten inside and could listen better. Her voice rose and fell. Drawing him. The top three buttons of her shirt were undone and her lips were moist. But he mustn’t keep looking at her.

  ‘…near Bradford. We were there almost a year. She worked on a fairground. Then we moved to a circus. It had girls on the trapeze, their bodices sequinned with light as they flew in the air. Once, one lost her footing and slipped. I thought I’d die. I thought she would. But she was okay. She was quick enough to get a grip on a rope. It was a good time. We met lots of people and we were free. I liked it. I didn’t think I would, but I did.’

  A sharp wind blew through him. They had been in the same place at the same time. They might have touched each other’s paths across the body of England. He remembered a song that Pauley had played, ‘Paths That Cross’.

  When he had travelled with his mum, the year of the coldest winter in Manchester, the sky was hard with frost. Icy. He and the lads had bunked school, daring to skate on the canal. Liverpool was the following spring, when his mum worked in a pub. Hull was another year. Another summer by the docks. The stench of fish clogging his throat. He had been glad to move on. They shifted to smaller towns, wherever the mood took her. Towns by the coast, run-down towns where the air sunk low on Wednesday afternoons with all the shops shut and all he could do with other kids, if they were speaking to him, was knock around by the phone boxes and do them in, if they got the chance. His mum might have found a job in a café, if it was the right season, and he played on the beaches. A landscape of slips of sand and low tides seemed to draw her, draw him, and he had not minded those places. She always knew someone or knew the friend of a friend as she tried to get from one small town to another. One night they had stayed on a lone station because the last train had gone but they had woken in the morning to take the first one out. It was going to Scarborough and she said it was a good omen, for the town was set in
an English folk song. She said she believed it was meant to be, destined, and they would have a good time there.

  One of the doors to the street flittered open. No one ever came in like that. The old men shuffled or coughed. Fuck. The police. Had to be. They had him. Someone had talked. Or whispered, or they had followed a chain of info. He stiffened. Palms moist with fear. He could rush to the kitchen door. Fight his way out through boxes and crates to the back way. He rose, knocking the table, sending the beer mats flying. But a tall scrag of a man slunk in. He had a goatee and spiky black hair.

  ‘Give us a pint, Caitlin,’ he called, striding to the counter, his arms spread open to her.

  She slipped behind the counter, pulling the pump handle. The head of a pint came up zooming and creamy as she set it on the counter. Torin prickled with relief and fear.

  ‘You do a good job, me darlin’.’ The man’s bloated belly hung out over a thick belt, though the rest of him was lanky.

  ‘I should think so. I’ve been practising long enough, Sheridan. And don’t call me your darling.’ She stamped out the words.

  ‘Why not, my dear?’ His voice strained to a posh tone. He shifted to the other side of the bar as though it was his. He sipped from the glass but kept watching. The man leaned on the counter. ‘Where’ve you been hiding these days? With your new friend?’ He cocked his head towards Torin and laughed, a scrawly, ragged laugh.

  ‘Don’t be thinking any more about me.’ She walked to another table where she gathered empty glasses on top of one another and put them on the counter. She gave a table a swipe of her cloth. The man neared, clamping his hands on her back. She shivered. Torin tensed. He should not be there. He did not want to see this. Women always had stuff to deal with.

  ‘Come here, a gradh’. Put your beautiful lips upon me.’

  Torin fought to keep his hands quiet and not knock the man. Smash his face. What he deserved. He was a git. Like men his mum brought home after nights in the club, when she could not say ‘no’ or tell them to bugger off but let them steal her time and goodwill. Trample on her loneliness but give nothing back.